Maggie Blackbird

Today, author Bridget Doone is guesting. She’s talking about her latest release Erotic For the Refined Palate, volume one, an erotic romance. Don’t forget to enter the Rafflecopter giveaway.

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Bridget Doone on her formative years:

I was born in Toronto, Ontario but grew up in a tiny town on the Grand River where my parents owned a hotel. As you might imagine, growing up in a hotel was never boring, and it was quite an education. Those experiences, which frequently find a place in my writing, are truly stranger than fiction. Case in point: When I was about 10 years old, the Province of Ontario decreed that topless dancers would soon be legal, and my father was damned and determined to have the first one. He hired Carmen based on an advertisement in a big city paper, and alerted the town she was coming to The Queens Hotel by sketching mammoth-sized mammaries on poster boards, which he stapled to the trees and poles up and down Main Street.

When Carmen arrived with her entourage, who I will later refer to as pimps, suffice it to say she looked nothing like the ad. Mum thought she was Carmen’s mother and wanted to fire her on the spot for false advertising, but dad said, no – the whole town was buzzing with suspense, counting the minutes until they could get a gander at Carmen’s cantaloupes and lay claim to being witness to the historic event.

By 8 pm, the bar was so full, dad was afraid the fire marshal would show up and start kicking people out. Then he realized the fire marshal was already there, right in front of the stage, along with the police chief and mother’s gynecologist. When the band fired up, my younger brother and I snuck downstairs and positioned ourselves just outside the kitchen door where we could spy the goings-on from behind the milk machines. Then through the saloon doors she burst, dressed in a satin robe and stilettos, her over-processed hair as course as a bale of hay, her makeup shiny and thick, as if applied with a trowel.

The bass player took Carmen’s nicotine-stained fingers in his own and hoisted her onto the stage where she faced the band and began to sway her narrow backside. Everyone cheered and clapped, and I’m sure my heretofore nervous parents thought all would be well and the till would runneth over, but seconds later their hopes were dashed when Carmen slipped the robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. What was left was a string bikini draped over 99 pounds of bad decisions. The crowd, stunned into silence, watched as Carmen slowly pulled the string behind her bony back, then threw the bikini top over her head, like a new bride tossing a bouquet. I can still see the dumbfounded faces of the band who were first to behold the reveal; they looked almost frightened.

Carmen spun to face the audience, and when her breasts caught up to her, they tick-tocked left and right then hung like beanbags from her sunken chest – the nipples pointing due south and resting alongside her belly button. The crowd gasped and then broke into hysterics, and my parents were so embarrassed, they fired her as soon as the band took their first break. Later dad would say that was a mistake, because the next night, the line to see ‘the comedy show at The Queens’ wrapped the block.

As it turned out, my parents felt bad about the whole thing and let Carmen and company stay the night in the hotel, where Carmen conducted business into the wee hours, solicited by her pimps while she’d been on stage. And as if that isn’t crazy enough, the following night I had a pajama party in the room that she had occupied, and in which she had left a brown paper bag full of condoms that my girlfriends and I promptly unwrapped and tried to put on like socks. On the Monday, I took some to school for show-and-tell; that was unwise.

So you see, I lived a charmed childhood in that tiny town, jumping from bed to bed in empty hotel rooms, ordering breakfast, lunch, and dinner off the menu, and showing up at parties with cases of beer I’d pinched from the hotel bar. I was a big fish in a little pond – that was until my parents moved us to Florida when I was 16. I cried the whole way there, which is here, on the Space Coast where I live today. I still visit my hometown every year and stop by The Queens Hotel to say hello. It’s nice to see my old babysitter; she bought the place from my parents.

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Title: Erotica For the Refined Palate
Series: Volume 1
Author: Bridget Doone
Genre: Mature Erotic Romance

FOUR NAUGHTY NOVELLAS FOR THE MATURE CONNOISSEUR

ME AND YOU AND A WIFE NAMED SUE
When Candy Blue, a randy romantic fiction writer, forms an inappropriate bond with a married man, he involves his wife, Sue, who invites Candy to dinner with the intention of exacting satisfaction, and in the most creative and unexpected ways.

THE HAT TRICK
When Ryan Axel meets his girlfriend’s parents at a hockey game in Tampa, he’s shocked to discover her mother, Maxine, is the woman he knows as Roxanne, a sexy mature who used to frequent his bar, and he’s determined to pick up where they left off – and during the game.

GREAT WHITE LIMO
Covid restrictions have lifted and Shannon finally gets a face-to-face with Steve Smith, a Canadian she befriended in a cheater’s chat room during the pandemic, but their indiscretion takes an unexpected turn when her domineering best friend and a young limo driver get involved.

JUST A SWINGIN’
Married, but not to each other, Country Club neighbors Krystal and Blake steal away to Cancun to masquerade as husband and wife at a swinger’s resort, with the intention of living out their disparate fantasies, and without complicating their long-term friendship.

Amazon | Bookbub | Goodreads

From Book Four: Just a Swingin’

Blake rotated his right wrist, then tapped the face of his watch; his father’s Omega 3 Seamaster had stopped again. He picked up his phone; still only 10:30 am – perhaps time had stopped everywhere. In hopes of a cat nap, he reclined in his office chair, crossed his feet on the desk, and lowered his eyelids, but the cell phone buzzed in his hand.

+15556739872: Am I wrong or are we on the same page?

Who the heck is that, he wondered, but unable to answer the question, he deleted the message. Fifteen minutes into his shuteye, the question was answered for him.

+15556739872: It’s Krystal

And that sat him bolt upright.

He’d known Crystal Barnes from afar since high school. She was the coolest of the cool kids: cheerleader, volleyball captain, homecoming queen – so far out of his orbit, it would have been impossible for the two to travel in the same circles. When she’d returned to Cranbury many years after college, it was with Ken Dollington on her arm, and when they married, she took his last name and traded the ‘C’ in Crystal for a ‘K.’ They purchased the nicest house in the neighborhood and joined the Country Club, and that’s when he reconnected with her. She didn’t remember him, of course, but eventually she and Ken and he and Barb began to interact socially, facilitated by their children; Blake was their soccer coach. But in all that time, communications had almost always come through Ken, and considering Krystal’s awkward overture last night, her texting was particularly disconcerting.

+15552126788: Hi Krystal. Not sure what you mean

+15556739872: Meet me at Bubbakoos in 30

Blake hesitated as he considered the consequences of accepting or not accepting the directive.

+15552126788: Sure. Everything OK?

+15556739872: Oh so much better than OK

Nervously curious, Blake grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on the back of his office door and headed out. The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t matter, because he had no intention of going in. Cranbury was the manifestation of a speculative small town, and Krystal Dollington might have held court there if the place had existed in days of yore; it would serve no good purpose to be seen alone with her. He backed his black Audi A7 into an inconspicuous spot under a tree and waited, and waited, and waited.

“Sorry,” she said into his window, as she maneuvered her candy-cane Camaro convertible into the tight space beside his, “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Blake adjusted his side mirror to bring Krystal’s shapely legs into view as they attempted to squeeze out her door; didn’t matter the weather, she was always tanned. She stood and bent over the driver’s seat to grab her purse, her age-inappropriate miniskirt wrapping her upper thighs like duct tape.

“Aren’t we going in?” she asked, bending to rest her elbow on his window ledge and exposing far too much skin for so early in the day, “I’m starving.”

“I can’t; I’m on my way to a meeting,” he lied, imagining an errant raisin or cashew fossilized in her copious cleavage, “Tell me out here.”

Krystal slumped with disappointment, then made her way around the front of his car and got in. She turned towards him, took a deep breath, then stung him with her opening salvo.

“I want to go to Cupidity, and I want you to go with me – as my husband.”

Blake’s brow knitted with the strain of mental forces as he struggled to completely comprehend the preposterous proposal, but before he could put two words together in response, Krystal hit him with the pitch.

“Now before you say no, Blake, hear me out,” she said, palms up to put a stop to his anticipated objection, “Obviously, we’ll have to share a room, but there will be two beds; that’s typical . . . you know . . . in case you want to invite another couple in for playtime.”

She squeezed his shoulder.

“The point is, my friend, you don’t have to worry about any complications. There will be no sexy time between you and me.”

Blake realized his jaw had dropped. He closed his mouth and found his voice.

“You’re crazy, Krystal!” he blurted, “Even if I wanted to go-”

“But you DO want to go,” she said, poking the DO into his chest, “I KNOW you do!” Another poke. “And I don’t believe for one SECOND you stumbled on some article about the lifestyle.”

“Stop poking me!” he said, twisting away from her.

Krystal crossed her arms, propelling her counterfeit cantaloupes up and almost out of her pink paisley v-neck sweater.

“Alright Blake,” she said, dragging her right thigh over her left, “Convince me you’re satisfied with your sex life and I’ll let it go.”

Blake drew his gaze from her chesticles up to her czar-like glare.

“No one is entirely satisfied with their sex life,” he said, quietly, “but be that as it may, I love my wife. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

Krystal rolled her eyes and her head followed.

“This isn’t about love, Blake; it’s about LIFE!” she said, slapping the dash, “I’m 59 for fuck sake! I haven’t even kissed another man in over 30 years! This is my chance – OUR chance – to step outside our reality and get our freak on!”

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BRIDGET DOONE is a fiction author living and working on the Space Coast of Florida. For much of her life, she’s been a network engineer, technical writer, and corporate trainer, and although still working in that capacity, as of late she’s been indulging her wanton imagination, writing erotica for a group of people largely abandoned by the genre – horny folks over 50.

To learn more about Bridget’s current and future offerings, including short stories and excerpts from her racy novels and very naughty novellas, visit her website at www.bridgetdoone.com.

Follow Bridget: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Bookbub | Amazon | Goodreads

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